


Mission Parameters

by shell



Series: Long Range Reconnaissance [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was never going to happen.</p><p>How it happened was like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Dine and Mizzmarvel, who were a big help, and thanks twice to Dine, who is the best cheerleader ever.
> 
> I know I said I wasn't going to write any more in this series, but apparently I was wrong. This one's a little different, with chapters and flashbacks and stuff; hopefully it works!

Clint was drinking coffee on the penthouse couch when Tony and Bruce came in. "You slept later than usual, Legolas; did you and Phil have a rough night?" Tony asked, smirking.

Clint tilted his head like he was seriously considering the question. "I wouldn't call it rough, no," he answered, taking a deliberate sip of his coffee.

"What would you call it, then?" Bruce asked, grinning at him.

"Good," Clint said with satisfaction. "Very good. I might even go with excellent, if pressed."

"So what was the reason you had to miss dinner with the team, anyway?" Tony asked, hands wrapped around his own freshly filled mug. "It's not either of your birthdays, and it's not your anniversary. I know you were shamefully happy about the Indians winning the Series, but that was over a week ago. What gives?"

"Just because it's not our wedding anniversary doesn't mean it wasn't an anniversary," Clint said blandly, with a vague hope that for once in his life Tony would take what was offered and not press for more.

Tony stood there with his hand on his chin for a second, but before he could say anything, Steve and Natasha stepped off the elevator.

"Good morning," Steve said. Nat just smiled and went over to Bruce. Steve was smiling too, of course--he'd done nothing but smile since he and Bucky had worked things out. It was a good look on both of them.

"Morning," Bruce murmured to Nat, kissing her temple.

"Hey, where's the Six Million Dollar Man?" Tony asked. "I haven't seen you without him in weeks."

"He's on his way to SHIELD Medical," Steve answered genially. "They want to take a look at how his arm's coming along."

"How much longer do they think it'll be before he's got a hand and fingers?" Clint asked. Bucky's arm had been growing slowly but steadily; the stump now extended well past the elbow.

"They think maybe by Thanksgiving, Christmas at the latest," Steve said, grinning. 

"That's great news," Clint said. 

"Speaking of Thanksgiving, can we count on Phil to make the stuffing again?" Tony asked.

Clint frowned. "We're not gonna be here for Thanksgiving, Tony," he said. "We told you that. Last year was an exception. This year we're going home again, like we always do."

"Home?" Tony asked, sounding hurt. "I thought this was your home, Barton."

"Home meaning Phil's Mom's place," Clint said, rolling his eyes. Phil himself had appeared, holding a travel mug in one hand and knotting his tie with the other. "The only other times we've missed Thanksgiving and Christmas were when we were on ops. In fact, I think that's what Phil told them we were doing last year."

"It _was_ an op," Phil said with a smile, sitting down next to Clint. "Operation Avengers Team Holiday 2012. But this year we'll be back with my family, like we are most years. Did I tell you Stephanie's bringing her boyfriend?" he asked Clint.

"She texted me," Clint said. "How's Jen handling it?"

"Jen's fine; it's Scott who's freaking out," Phil said. "'She's only twenty-two, what's she doing with a live-in boyfriend,' that kind of thing."

Clint snorted. "Wasn't Jen twenty-two when he proposed?"

"Twenty-three," Phil corrected. "Apparently that makes all the difference."

"Okay, okay, I get it, you're close with your family--both of you," Tony said. "So invite them all here. We've got plenty of room."

"Tony," Steve said, frowning.

"What?" Tony said.

"If Clint and Phil want to go to Connecticut for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and any other occasion, that's their choice," Steve said earnestly. "Personally, I think it's wonderful that they have family to spend the holidays with."

Clint winced; he was way too familiar with what was behind that statement. So was Phil, thanks to his years with Clint.

"We appreciate the offer," Phil told Tony, his hand resting on Clint's thigh. "I'll pass it on, but I'm not making any promises."

Tony just nodded, and Clint shot him a grateful smile.

"And now I've got to go," Phil said. "Sorry I don't have time for pancakes," he added to Clint.

"It's okay," Clint said.

"Walk me to the elevator?" Phil asked quietly.

"Sure," Clint answered.

When they got there, Phil said, "Do you think I need to talk to Steve?"

Clint shook his head. "I think he's fine. He meant it, you know? He really is happy that at least one of us still has a family."

"Two of us," Phil corrected.

"Right, two of us," Clint agreed, because Phil's family _was_ his family, loved him and accepted him more than his own blood ever had. It had taken him years to believe it, but he did now, at least most of the time.

"I really am sorry I have to go," Phil said. 

Clint smiled and touched Phil's face. "The pancakes are optional. Last night was what was important."

"Here's to eight years, and many more to come," Phil said, and kissed him, slow and tender and reverent. When he finished, he leaned his forehead against Clint's and said, "I love you."

"Love you too," Clint said softly. "Free for lunch?"

"If we can eat in my office, sure," Phil said.

"See you then," Clint said, and stepped back so Phil could get in the elevator.

He walked back over to the couch, ignoring the way Tony was watching him. 

"You making us pancakes, Katniss?" Tony asked. Because he was Tony; really, Clint should have expected it.

Clint shook his head. "Nope."

"So what anniversary were the two of you celebrating, huh?" Tony went on, smirking. "Was it your first kiss? Your first date? The day you finally manned up and told each other how you felt? Or, wait--it was your first time, wasn't it? You and Phil, sexing it up for the first time, that has to be it."

Clint sighed. "All of the above, if you must know," he said.

"This is a story I've got to hear," Tony said, pointing at him. "Out with it, Barton."

"Not in a million years, Stark," Clint said, because no. But when Steve looked at him, a question in his eyes, Clint gave him a shrug and let his mouth turn up a tiny bit. 

When he went down to Steve and Bucky's for a beer that night, Steve said, "You don't have to tell us."

"Or if you want to just tell Steve, I can go hang out with Nat for a while," Bucky offered. The two of them were sitting next to each other, Steve's arm around Bucky's shoulder, Bucky's around Steve's waist. Clint took a moment to be grateful that his friend had finally gotten what he'd been waiting for, that he and Bucky were so happy. That they had what he and Phil had.

"Nah, it's okay," Clint said easily. "I don't mind you two knowing, and neither does Phil. But it's none of Tony's business. I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourselves."

"Sure," Bucky said, smirking. "Why, is it embarrassing?"

Clint laughed. "You could say that. If Tony finds out, we'll never hear the end of it."

Steve grinned. "I admit I'm curious. I've got this picture in my head of you telling him while you were on comms."

Clint laughed again and shook his head. "It wasn't me, man," he said.

"Really?" Steve asked, surprised. "I would've thought Phil would keep it buttoned up, think it wasn't appropriate."

"He did," Clint said. "For years. I never even suspected, thought it would never happen." He smiled, remembering, and told them the story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint knew he was attracted to Coulson the moment they met, but it wasn't until their first official mission, six months later, that he realized how much more there was to it than attraction. When Coulson took down three terrorists with a baguette and a few carefully placed kicks, Clint's heart had actually stuttered in his chest. He'd stared at his handler in shock, certain his feelings must be written all over his face.

It was never going to happen. 

It happened anyway.

***

How it happened was like this.

Clint had loved Coulson for years, practically the entire time they'd known each other, although it had taken him a while to figure it out. Coulson had stopped Clint in his tracks, first by shooting him (it was really more of a graze), then by recruiting him. He'd continued to throw Clint for the proverbial loop when he'd taken a personal interest in Clint's training. 

Clint knew he was attracted to Coulson the moment they met, but it wasn't until their first official mission, six months later, that he realized how much more there was to it than attraction. When Coulson took down three terrorists with a baguette and a few carefully placed kicks, Clint's heart had actually stuttered in his chest. He'd stared at his handler in shock, certain his feelings must be written all over his face. 

But Coulson had just said, "Make yourself useful and get those kids back to their mothers, Barton." Clint had picked up the two screaming toddlers without a word, wishing he spoke more French. He told himself he'd have plenty of time to freak out privately later on. 

Once they'd gotten back to New York, he'd tried everything he could think of to forget his epiphany, but nothing worked. For the first (and last) time in his life, he was in love. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sensation, considering the circumstances.

Coulson was amazing--a brilliant tactician, the best agent in SHIELD, a total badass. He was the man who'd recruited Clint, who'd believed in him and trusted him on some basis unknown to Clint or, as far as he could tell, anyone else. Beyond all of that, Coulson also had gorgeous blue eyes, great taste in clothing, and a body that filled out those suits like you wouldn't believe. Clint had no doubt that he was as good in bed as he was at everything else, and he was _very_ good at everything else. 

But Coulson was his handler, and he played by the rules. Nothing was never going to happen, even if Coulson actually felt anything for Clint other than trust, loyalty and some exasperated affection. Which he didn't; why would he? So Clint played by the rules, too. He referred to Coulson by his last name, even in his thoughts. When they'd shared a decontamination shower, he resolutely avoided staring at the hair on Coulson's chest and the way it trailed down his stomach, and only allowed himself a brief glance at Coulson's dick. Coulson himself didn't so much as look at Clint. He remained unflappable and professional, even when he was washing possibly radioactive slime off that incredible body of his.

Okay, so maybe Clint did more than glance. He had excellent peripheral vision, after all.

Clint wasn't knocking what he and Coulson had; the friendship they shared meant more to him than he could comfortably express. He still didn't get how he'd earned such loyalty and trust, not to mention the affection, but every time Coulson told him he'd done a good job he felt warm inside. When Coulson's eyes crinkled up a little in response to one of Clint's smartass remarks, Clint was happy for days. The first time Coulson huffed a quiet laugh on the comms during a mission, Clint did a little victory dance in his head. 

Coulson cared about Clint, and he let Clint see more of who he was than any of the other agents he handled. He even invited Clint over to his apartment now and then to watch the ridiculous reality shows he liked. That Coulson let Clint see that much of the man behind the suit was a great gift, and Clint would never do anything to jeopardize it. It was enough; it was more than he'd ever had before.

Then, a couple of years after he'd joined SHIELD, they got the mission to take out the Black Widow. 

Clint was surprised when he saw the Widow, saw Natasha, looking younger and far more vulnerable than he'd expected. When she held off killing her target, who was holding his daughter in his arms, Clint knew he couldn't just shoot her, not without talking to her. The next surprise came when she agreed to come in. He could tell she felt the connection between them as much as he did. 

Coulson argued with him, which wasn't a surprise, and tried to convince him he was being played. But eventually gave in and trusted Clint's play in a way that felt deeply gratifying. He could tell Coulson sensed there was something more to it than Clint's instincts as an agent, and he could tell Coulson wasn't completely happy about that, but he pushed it all aside in the excitement of bringing the Black Widow into SHIELD as an asset instead of a corpse.

He and Natasha fell into bed three months after she came back with him, celebrating the end of her probationary status. The sex was great, and for a short time Clint tried to convince himself that this could really work between them. It was better than pining after Coulson. Clint would never have more than friendship with him, but he could have it all with Nat, or so he told himself. 

He decided he should commit to what he had and forget about what he didn't. So, a few months after they'd started sleeping together, he told Nat he loved her.

She stared at him for half a second, her brow wrinkling just a little. Then she threw her head back and laughed. 

Clint stared back at her, telling himself he was hurt, but he was already grinning, and a second later he was laughing just as hard as she was. "Okay, okay," he said when she wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to regain her normal control of her expressions. "I do, though," he added. "Love you, I mean. Just not…"

"Not the way you love Coulson," she said gently. 

"Yeah," he said, looking out the window so she couldn't see his face. Not that it mattered; she already knew almost everything about him. He'd even told her about Barney, although he'd had to get drunk to do it.

"You should tell him," Nat said, putting her hand on his arm. "And we should stop fucking."

"What?" Clint said, staring at her. "Are you insane? I can't tell him! He'd blame himself and assign me to another handler. I'd probably never see him again."

"That's not what would happen," Natasha said, serene and certain. It made him want to punch something. 

"And why the hell should we stop fucking?" he went on, ignoring her comment. "We've got a good thing going here, Nat. We're not built for the white picket fence and the 2.5 children anyway, so why not enjoy ourselves?"

She shook her head. "It's hurting him. And it's hurting you. This was the last time, Clint; I should have stopped it weeks ago. Tell him."

Clint got dressed and left Nat's quarters, slamming the door on the way out. He avoided her and Coulson both for the next eight months, going out on a long-term op with Sitwell, leaving without even saying goodbye. When he got back, Coulson called him into his office.

"Talk to me, Barton," Coulson said blandly, but Clint wasn't fooled. Coulson had noticed Clint's behavior--Coulson noticed everything--and he was going to by God do his job as Clint's handler. On that day, doing his job meant getting Clint to talk.

It didn't mean Clint had to make it easy for him; Coulson would be even more intent if Clint didn't give him any lip. "Talk to you about what, sir?" he said, sprawling on Coulson's couch. "I hear Agent Hill's being promoted. Or do you want to hear about General Ross's latest hijinks? I know he's a personal favorite of yours."

"You and Agent Romanoff ended your relationship, and you immediately left the country," Coulson said, calm and to the point. "While it makes some sense that you've been avoiding her, it's important that I understand why you've been avoiding me. Perhaps the associations with Agent Romanoff are too strong. I can have you reassigned to Agent Sitwell permanently if you wish."

"No," Clint said quickly, sitting up. "No, sir, that's not what I want." Sitwell was okay, but he'd spent the entire eight months missing Coulson's voice, his dry humor, his utter and complete competence. Not to mention the way he filled out those suits.

"All right," Coulson said, cool as ever, but Clint thought he looked pleased. "Do I need to transfer Agent Romanoff to another handler?"

"That's not necessary, boss," Clint said firmly. "Nat and I will be fine. We just…we're better as friends."

Coulson looked at him steadily. "You love her."

"I do," Clint agreed uneasily; it was a hard thing to admit, especially to Coulson. "But I'm not in love with her. I just got confused for a while."

"And you're not confused now," Coulson said, a little bit of a question in his voice.

"No, sir, I'm not." He was very clear on what he wanted, and just as clear that he was never going to get it.

"Very well," Coulson said, nodding once. "We've got a mission coming up in six weeks. There will be a briefing tomorrow at 0830. Today you'll work on close quarter techniques; Romanoff is waiting for you downstairs."

"Ready to get my ass handed to me, boss," Clint said, giving Coulson a jaunty wave as he left the office.

Things went back to normal between them, and Nat and Clint settled into a new kind of partnership. The three of them gelled as a team. They got assigned the difficult ops, and they were successful with all of them. Clint was promoted to Senior Agent, Specialist, with a security level just one step below Coulson's (Senior Agent, Executive). Coulson gave him a piece of pie with a candle in it on his birthday and invited him over for pizza and _Supernanny_ the night after his promotion.

It all went well as they built up to the Saigon ("Ho Chi Minh City," Coulson's voice corrected in his head) mission, and it continued to work well right up until the point that they were surrounded by the terrorists they'd come to take down on three sides, with the police closing rapidly on the fourth. Clint should have known their luck couldn't last forever.

"Get out of here," Coulson said, gesturing to Nat and Clint. "Go to the extraction point. I'll cover you."

"We're not leaving without you, sir," Clint said, glancing behind him to see how far away the police were.

"I don't have time to argue with you, Barton," Coulson said firmly. "Go, both of you. That's an order."

"Coulson…" Clint said, but Nat grabbed his arm and shook her head.

"I can take care of myself, Barton," Coulson said. "You need to get that data to SHIELD, and you need me to cover you. Go."

"We'll see you at the extraction point, sir," Natasha said, pulling Clint after her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thank you," Coulson said as Clint taped some more gauze over the wound in his leg. "Thank you for coming for me. You're like my white knight with a bow."
> 
> "Of course I came for you," Clint said. "Come on, let's go." He put his arm around Coulson's waist, and Coulson leaned into him again. Jesus.

"I don't like this," Clint said a few hours later. They were hiding in a Buddhist temple on the river, a short distance from their extraction point. "He should be here by now." Their ride was coming in twenty-eight minutes.

"No," Nat said, looking at him, one perfect eyebrow raised.

"No, he shouldn't be here yet?" Clint said. 

"No, you're not going after him," Nat said. "Coulson was right--we need that data, and it's not going to do us any good until the techs decrypt it."

"We can't just leave him here, Nat," Clint argued. "You know he'd never leave one of us behind."

"After the data's secure, we'll go after him," Nat said. "Not before. Coulson can take care of himself."

Clint looked at his watch. Twenty-seven minutes and counting. "Here," he said, taking the thumb drive out of his pocket and giving it to Nat. "You give it to them. I'm not waiting any longer. You don't know what they might do to him."

Nat looked at him, sighed, and then nodded once. They didn't have a lot of intel on this particular group except for what was on the thumb drive, but what little they did know indicated they didn't mess around when they captured someone. And Nat knew Clint well enough to know she'd have to do some serious damage to stop him. 

"I'll be at the gamma site in three hours," she said. "I'll wait two hours there; after that, I'm coming after you."

"I'll try to leave a message at the drop," Clint said. "Thanks, Nat."

She shrugged. "He'll be pissed at us both; maybe he'll threaten to taze us. That's always fun. Good luck."

Clint nodded and looked around the corner before grabbing his boots and sneaking out into the main part of the temple.

The city was packed with people, motorcycles, and more people. It was easy enough to blend in with a European tourist group leaving the temple. He made his way back to where they'd lost Coulson, but the trail was cold; he spent nearly all his money trying to get someone to tell him where the white man in the black suit had been taken, especially since it had happened an hour before sunrise. More than two hours went by before he had any clear idea where to go next; it took another ten minutes to get to the drop and leave a note for Nat. 

He stole a bike and set off to the building that might be one of the terrorists' safe houses, which might be where they had Coulson. They didn't have him, as it turned out, but he was able to persuade one of the asshole terrorists to give him another address after he'd killed the guy's asshole terrorist friends. Of course, the asshole terrorist could have been lying, but it was the only thing he had to go on. 

By the time he got to the new location, it was late enough in the day that Nat would already be waiting. Clint hoped he could find Coulson and get him out of there in the next hour, which would give them the leeway to meet her before the window closed.

At no point during the day did Clint ever consider that he might be too late to find Coulson before they killed him. It was Coulson; the man could survive just about anything, and he had to know Clint was coming to get him out. Anything else was unthinkable.

The new location was a carefully non-descript five story building behind a busy market. The main entrance had great sight lines and was well-guarded, but there was only one guy on the roof. Good thing that asshole terrorists were frequently stupid; it made Clint's job a lot easier. It took longer than he liked to work his way close enough to take the guy out without anyone seeing his approach, but eventually he was able to do it. Getting in after that was easy, since the dumbass had propped the door to the roof open.

He worked his way from floor to floor, dispatching everyone he came across as silently as he could; none of them had the chance to sound an alarm. He recognized some of them from earlier, but he couldn't question any of them without giving himself away, so he continued to work his way through the maze of small rooms and narrow corridors, taking out the odd goon. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of Coulson's voice, and his shoulders dropped in relief, at least until he could hear what Coulson was actually saying. 

The cadence was the same as always, but as Clint got close enough to understand the words, he knew something was very wrong. "Keep it together, Phil," Coulson was saying. "They'll come for you. Probably _he'll_ come for you, which would be just like him, riding in like a white knight with a bow. He can never follow orders, but it's okay, because he'll come for you like the gorgeous idiot he is, and, to be frank, you need the help. Just keep it together. Fuck, this is annoying."

Clint flattened himself against a wall as he saw another goon making his way around the corner, knowing he'd be replaying the sound of Coulson saying "fuck" in his memories for a long time. He easily took the goon out with an arrow, the sound of the bowstring and the subsequent hit barely audible. Coulson went silent for maybe a second, then said, "I know that sound. That is a very good sound, and if he's here he can probably hear me. I really wish I could shut up."

The door was wide open; apparently these dickwads didn't think they needed it closed, just like on the roof. Clint walked right in, and there was Coulson, tied to a chair with some knots he should have been able to get out of. His face was pale, he was sweating, and he was barely holding his head up. His pupils were constricted, but he didn't look like he'd been hit in the head. He was hooked up to an IV, and his leg was bleeding sluggishly from what looked like a bullet graze.

"Clint, Jesus, I am really glad to see you," Coulson said, giving him what Clint could only call a goofy smile. "God, you look good. You always look good, but right now you look _really_ good. Please gag me before I say anything else."

"What the hell did they do to you, sir?" Clint breathed, cutting through the ropes and helping Coulson stand. Coulson leaned into him when he stood, putting both arms around his neck; it was almost like he was hugging Clint. 

Coulson kept talking. "They shot me up with drugs, Clint, what the fuck do you think they did?" he said. "Whatever they used, we need to study it; you should grab some of it to take with us. Because I can't shut up to save my life, and I can't lie, and it _sucks_. We should hurry; they might be coming back soon."

"You can't lie, huh, sir?" Clint said, picking up a few of the syringes from the table and sticking them in his pockets. "How's your leg? Can you walk?"

"Not very well," Coulson answered, putting his arm around Clint's shoulder. "It's just a graze, but it doesn't hurt. That's one good thing about the drugs. But I'm dizzy, and I'm weak as a kitten. You'll have to help me. It feels really good to have you this close. Please, Clint, find some duct tape and tape my mouth shut."

"No need for that, boss," Clint said. "Let's just focus on getting you out of here." 

"I had to tell them something," Coulson said earnestly. "I'm glad you're here, because I was running out of safe things to say. I couldn't shut up, but I couldn't tell them anything about SHIELD. " 

"Of course you couldn't," Clint said soothingly, trying to ignore the way Coulson kept calling him "Clint" and saying things like he was gorgeous and he liked having Clint close, or the way the tips of his ears turned pink every time he said something like that. He was drugged. He didn't know what he was saying. 

Clint searched for some gauze and pulled the IV out. "Pressure there, boss, if you can," he said, and Coulson nodded woozily and put his fingers over the gauze and pressed down. Clint taped over it and watched for a minute to make sure the pressure of Coulson's fingers was keeping it from bleeding through. For all he knew, the drugs in Coulson's system included a blood-thinner.

"Thank you," Coulson said as Clint taped some more gauze over the wound in his leg. "Thank you for coming for me. You're like my white knight with a bow."

"Of course I came for you," Clint said. "Come on, let's go." He put his arm around Coulson's waist, and Coulson leaned into him again. Jesus.

"I told them about my childhood, but that didn't work. They wanted secrets; I had to give them secrets," Coulson continued, turning his head and pressing his forehead against Clint's neck. "You smell so good, Clint. I told them everything I could think of that wasn't classified."

"That's good, sir, that's just what you should have done," Clint said, trying to move them towards the door.

"I told them I was gay," Coulson said. "They were surprised by that for a minute or two, but then I had to come up with something else."

"Did you tell them about your strange love of reality television?" Clint asked, supporting Coulson's weight and ignoring the confirmation of what he'd long suspected and hoped for. 

Coulson shook his head sadly. "They didn't want to hear about _Supernanny_ , Clint. They said that wasn't a secret; all degenerate Americans love reality TV."

"What else did you tell them?" Clint asked, just to keep Coulson occupied, but Coulson went rigid.

"I told them I was in love with you," Coulson said, his face pink. "Why did you have to ask me that? I didn't tell them your name, of course, but I told them I was in love with someone I worked with. I haven't ever told you, but I told them, and that's just wrong, because if I told anyone, it should have been you. I do love you, Clint, but I wasn't ever going to tell you. Fuck this stupid drug; why didn't you gag me when I asked you to?"

"Okay," Clint said, swallowing hard. He couldn't let himself believe it, but he couldn't help hoping. "Okay, you told me. Come on, Coulson, we need to get out of here. I'm not going to gag you, but could you maybe try to keep it to a whisper?"

"I can do that," Coulson whispered, his lips so close to Clint's ear that he could feel Coulson's breath. "Now's the only chance I'll ever have to tell you how much you mean to me. It's completely unprofessional, even if it's not against regs, but I can't help loving you. I love you so much, Clint. I'm going to be mortified later, but I have to admit it's a relief to tell you."

"You don't know what you're saying, sir," Clint whispered, trying to give Coulson that, at least. "Sit here while I take care of whoever's guarding the front door. I'll be right back, and we'll get you out of here, okay?" He lowered Coulson carefully to the ground.

"I know exactly what I'm saying, and I mean every word of it," Coulson murmured. "I'll wait here for you. I'm sorry I'm not able to help. Please be careful, Clint. No jumping off buildings."

"Ground floor, here, boss," Clint breathed. "No worries."

He took care of the guards he could see and came back for Coulson, who smiled at him again like he was the best thing Coulson had ever seen. "Up we go," Clint said, leaning down to pull him up. Coulson put his arms around Clint and held on once he was upright.

"Clint," he said, leaning in and resting his cheek against Clint's. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Clint said hoarsely. "Come on."

It wasn't easy maneuvering Coulson through the crowded streets, but at least it was loud enough that he could pretend not to hear what Coulson was saying, which included some very complimentary statements about his arms. And his ass. Clint had to find a quick hiding place when he saw a police officer headed their way; he got them into an alley and behind some sheets hanging from a clothesline just in time. 

"Shhhh," he whispered. Coulson nodded once and then kissed him, his lips moving softly against Clint's. It took everything Clint had not to kiss him back, but he did it, gripping Coulson gently by the shoulders and taking a step back.

"Sorry; Jesus, I'm sorry," Coulson whispered.

"It's okay," Clint murmured. "Nothing to be sorry for."

"I've fucked it up," Coulson whispered. "I've ruined our friendship; I'm so sorry."

"You haven't ruined anything," Clint said quietly; it sounded like the cop was gone. "But you're not yourself, Coulson, and we're in the middle of a situation here. We can talk about this when you're not high as a kite, okay?"

"I won't want to talk about it," Coulson said. "You don't need to let me down easily, Clint; I get it."

Clint looked down and shook his head. "No, you really don't," he said. "Coulson…Phil. Promise me one thing."

"If I can," Coulson said, and he sounded almost normal, although he was smiling again. "You called me Phil. I really like hearing that, Clint. I like hearing you say my name." 

_I like saying it,_ Clint thought. _I like hearing you say mine._

"Promise me that when you're yourself again, if you even remember this, promise me you'll tell me how you really feel," he said, meeting Coulson's gaze steadily. "If you do that, I promise it'll be okay. We'll work through it, whatever it is you have to tell me. I'll understand, either way."

"You still don't believe I love you," Coulson said, frowning. "I do, Clint. I've never lied to you, and I'm not lying now. I'm in love with you. I have been for years." 

Clint nodded. Coulson certainly looked like he believed what he was saying. Clint allowed himself to believe it might be possible, then slammed a lid down on all of it. There wasn't time for this now. "Then tell me again after the drug's out of your system," he said, still looking steadily into Coulson's blue eyes. "Tell me when you're competent and capable of making your own decisions, and when we're not on the run from anyone. Can you do that, Phil?"

"Yeah," Coulson said. "It'll be a lot harder, but I can do it. I will, I promise." He studied Clint's face for a moment, reaching out and touching his cheek. 

Clint closed his eyes and took a slow breath. 

"You…okay," Coulson said. "I get it. We'll talk later."

"Okay," Clint said, opening his eyes again. "Come on, Tasha's waiting for us a few blocks from here."

"I'm exhausted," Coulson said after they'd been walking for a minute. "I can barely keep my eyes open, Clint. I'm nauseated, and my head is killing me."

"It's just a little further, boss; you can make it," Clint said, taking more of his weight.

"Not without your help," Coulson muttered. He was starting to shake.

"I've got you, Phil," Clint said. "I'll carry you if I have to."

"Wait, stop," Coulson said. "I've got to," and then he bent at the waist and vomited on the street.

That attracted some attention. "Bad shrimp," Clint said to the people who were staring. He hoped none of them had noticed the bandage on Coulson's leg; it was mostly covered by the dirty suit trousers he was wearing.

"You need doctor?" a woman asked, frowning at them. 

"No, no, we're fine," Clint said firmly. "Thank you."

"Shit," Coulson muttered. "Clint, you need to get out of here. It's not safe. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me."

"We're almost there, Phil," Clint said. "See that building? That's where Nat's waiting for us." At least he hoped she was; they were past the two-hour limit. He also hoped she'd arranged for a quick pick-up and a medic; he didn't like how Phil--Coulson--how he looked and sounded.

And then he didn't have to worry about her anymore, because she appeared out of nowhere and got on Coulson's other side, helping him walk. 

"Natasha," Coulson said weakly. "I'm almost as happy to see you as I was to see Clint, but I think I'm about to puke all over your shoes."

She stepped to the side gracefully as Coulson retched painfully and brought up some green bile. Clint held him up and watched him worriedly. He was trembling all over, sweating copiously, and paler than Clint had seen him since that time he'd nearly died from blood loss in Belarus.

"I've got a taxi waiting around the corner," Nat said, "and a boat waiting at the docks."

"Clint, I don't…" Coulson said, trailing off as his knees buckled.

"I've got you," Clint said, and bent to take Coulson in a fireman's carry. "Please tell me there's a medic on that boat," he said urgently to Nat, moving as quickly as he could through the crowds with Coulson over his shoulder. Coulson had gone limp, and he wasn't talking any more. People were staring at them; some of them had their phones out. They needed to get out of here.

"Two medics," she said, leading him towards the waiting taxi. "I thought it was best to be safe."

Coulson was completely unresponsive by the time they got to the docks, but he was still breathing, if more shallowly than Clint was comfortable with. Clint told the medics what he could about how Coulson was drugged, handing them the syringes he'd swiped. Then he sat back and watched them work as the boat motored slowly down the river. They were working quickly and efficiently, but they didn't seem frantic. That was good, he hoped.

After a while, one of them came over to him and said, "His vitals are stable, and his reflexes are intact, Agent Barton. We can't know for sure until we get him into a hospital, but we believe he's just heavily sedated and dehydrated."

"Thanks," Clint said, nodding. "What about his leg?"

"Looks like a bullet graze, but it should heal fine," she said. "We cleaned it out and redressed it."

"Okay," Clint said. "That's good."

"You can sit with him, if you like," she offered. "There's room."

"Yeah, thanks," Clint said. He sat next to Phil--he couldn't make himself go back to calling him Coulson, at least not in his head--and gently took his hand. Nat came and sat next to him, looking at both him and Phil with equally worried expressions. The medics continued to do their job, and no one said a word about the way Clint was holding Phil's hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Barton," Phil said, then shook his head minutely. "Clint. I appreciate the sensitivity you showed when I was…" he trailed off.
> 
> "Under the influence?" Clint asked with a smirk. "Drunk as a skunk? High as a kite? It's okay, Phil." Not "boss," or "sir." Phil, because he called him Clint. "I know you weren't yourself."
> 
> "I was, though," Phil said quietly. "I was myself, Clint. Just without a filter."

Clint stayed at Phil's side the entire trip back to New York; he told Nat the story as he watched Phil sleep. Clint napped twice when he knew Nat was awake to watch, but Phil never moved. When they landed, they took him off to Medical via ambulance. Once he and Nat got to headquarters, Fury ordered Clint to his quarters to sleep, saying he'd have someone wake him if anything changed. Nat came with him and curled around him in the bed until he could close his eyes. 

When he woke up, it was five hours later. Nat was sitting in her favorite chair, the fancy upholstered one she'd given him, reading a book. 

"How is he?" Clint asked.

"He woke up an hour ago," she said, a tiny smile on her face. "They're running some tests, but we can go see him in another hour."

"That's really good news," Clint said, choosing not to get pissed off that she'd let him sleep so long.

"It is," she agreed. She wrinkled her nose. "Now go take a shower. You stink."

Clint showered, shaved, and dressed in the only civilian clothes he had that were clean. Natasha approved of them; she said the grey t-shirt brought out his eyes and the jeans showed off his ass. He frowned at her, but he didn't argue. She made him a sandwich, which he devoured, and then they walked down to Medical. 

"He's been asking for you, Agent Barton," the nurse on duty said. He was tall and thin, and he looked very young. There was a slight drawl to his voice; it sounded like Texas, or maybe Oklahoma. "You can go right on in; the doctor just left."

"Thanks," Clint said, his mouth dry. "Nat, are you coming?"

She shook her head. "Tell him I'll see him later. And Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"If either one of you chickens out, I'll kill you in your sleep."

"I'm not gonna chicken out," Clint said, although part of him really wanted to. "I made a promise. So did he."

Nat nodded, brushed her lips over his cheek, and left. Clint took a deep breath, opened the door to Phil's room, and walked in.

Phil was sitting up in bed, frowning at some paperwork. He looked up when Clint entered the room. His color was back to normal, Clint noted with relief, and he managed to make the crappy SHIELD-issue hospital gown look, if not good, much better than it had any right to look. He stopped frowning when he saw Clint.

"Hey, boss, how are you feeling?" Clint asked. Phil's expression flickered briefly at the "boss," which was an interesting data point.

"Much better, thank you," Phil said. "According to the medical staff, the drugs have completely cleared my system."

"I'm really glad to hear that," Clint said sincerely. He grabbed a chair and scooted it close to the bed. If this went the way he hoped, he'd appreciate being within reach. If it went the other way, well, he'd leave.

Phil looked at him for a long moment. Clint looked back, for once not trying to hide anything. "Barton," Phil said, then shook his head minutely. "Clint. I appreciate the sensitivity you showed when I was…" he trailed off.

"Under the influence?" Clint asked with a smirk. "Drunk as a skunk? High as a kite? It's okay, Phil." Not "boss," or "sir." Phil, because he called him Clint. "I know you weren't yourself."

"I was, though," Phil said quietly. "I was myself, Clint. Just without a filter."

Clint let out a slow breath. "Do you…how much do you remember?" he asked, his voice catching.

"Most of it, I think," Phil answered, the barest hint of pink in his cheeks. "The end's a bit fuzzy; the last thing I remember was when we were in that alley. They said you and Natasha got me home--what happened?"

"You were in bad shape," Clint said, watching Phil closely, his heart hammering in his chest. "Nat arranged for transport, and I carried you. We were worried about you."

Phil nodded in acknowledgement. "I'm sorry for worrying you," he said. "Thanks for coming for me. You shouldn't have done it, but I'm glad you did."

"I'll always come for you," Clint said, because it was the truth. "Can we get back to what you said about you being yourself? Because…fuck, Phil. Just tell me, okay?"

"Okay," Phil said, but then he went silent. Clint watched him steel himself, and he wanted to take his hand, to reassure him, but he couldn't, not yet. Not until he knew for sure.

"When I told you this was going to be difficult, I wasn't lying," Phil said eventually, the corner of his mouth going up a touch. He took a deep breath. "I wasn't lying about any of it, Clint. I love you. I have for a long time. I'll understand if that makes you uncomfortable, and if you want a new handler, I'll make the arrangements immediately."

Clint shook his head and finally took Phil's hand. "Never," he said softly. "Phil, Jesus, I've been in love with you for years. I can't believe you never noticed."

Phil's eyes were wide and very blue. "But you…when I kissed you…"

"When you kissed me, you were roofied," Clint said. "I couldn't kiss you back. I wanted to, believe me." He moved closer. "I want to," he murmured. 

Phil looked at him without a trace of his usual poker face. Instead, Clint saw wonder and joy. Phil put his hand on Clint's cheek. "I want you to," he said.

When Clint kissed him, Phil made a soft noise at the back of his throat and kissed him back. He tasted like the cheap-ass toothpaste that was all they had in Medical, and he smelled like the even cheaper deodorant soap, antiseptic, and the sour sweat the soap hadn't completely taken care of. His hair was greasy, and his skin had a soapy residue that Clint could taste at the corners of his mouth. 

None of that mattered. It was the best kiss of Clint's life, right up until the nurse came in without knocking.

"I'm so sorry, agents," the nurse, the same young guy from earlier, said as Phil and Clint broke apart. "I apologize; I should have knocked."

"It's all right," Phil said, giving Clint a regretful look. 

"You were right, kid," Clint said, glaring at him. "You should've knocked."

"Of course, sir," the kid said. "I'm sorry; it won't happen again."

There was no "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" at SHIELD, and the regs were pretty loose when it came to fraternization, but Clint wasn't the least bit surprised when Phil said, "I'd appreciate it if you kept what you just saw to yourself, Mr. Hernandez." He was back in buttoned-down agent mode, but he hadn't taken his hand from Clint's.

"Don't worry, Agent Coulson," the kid answered. "I won't breathe a word to anyone, I promise."

"Thanks," Clint said, because this belonged to the two of them, not anyone else.

"Have you heard anything about when I might be released?" Phil asked. 

"They want to keep an eye on you for at least another few hours, sir," the nurse answered. "I was fixing to ask you what you might like for lunch; here's the menu."

He handed Phil a photocopied sheet of paper that appeared to include such gourmet items as a ham sandwich, meatloaf, and "pasta bake," whatever the hell that was. "The food here is crap. I'll grab you a cheeseburger and fries at the canteen," Clint said, balling up the menu and throwing it into the wastebasket. Medical's food was edible, barely, but Phil deserved more than edible. 

"We can eat together. I'll bring pie if they have a good kind today," he continued, wondering if Carla was working today. Both he and Phil detested anything with meringue on it, and when she was in the kitchen, there was always pie without meringue.

"That'd be great," Phil said, giving Clint a smile he'd never seen before, although it was close to the smile Phil had had when he'd been drugged. It was open and happy and full of affection, it made the corners of his eyes crinkle up, and Clint's heart skipped a beat when he saw it. He wanted--God, how he wanted--to kiss Phil again, but he settled for squeezing his hand and smiling back at him.

"All right," the nurse said. "Is there anything you need, Agent Coulson?"

"Could we get some coffee?" Phil asked. "We both take it black. From the coffee machine on the executive level."

"Yes, sir. I'll get that right away," the nurse said, and left the room.

"The coffee by Fury's office isn't any better than the stuff in the break room," Clint said after the door closed.

Phil shrugged, still smiling. "It's further away, though."

"You're a devious motherfucker," Clint said, grinning. "It's one of the many things I love about you."

Phil's face got pink again. Clint moved in and kissed him again. It was even better than the first kiss, but Phil pulled back way too soon. 

"What's wrong?" Clint asked.

"Nothing," Phil said, picking up Clint's hand and brushing his lips over the knuckles. "But I'd prefer that we continue this somewhere without any medical equipment. Somewhere private."

"Oh," Clint said, blinking. "Yeah. That sounds good."

"I'm not going to want to stop, either," Phil added, low and warm. 

"You, uh, you got any place in particular in mind?" Clint asked, feeling like all the blood had left his brain and headed straight to his dick.

"I thought I'd take you home with me," Phil said. 

"That sounds great," Clint said, swallowing. "I'd…I'd really like that. To come home with you." He'd been to Phil's apartment lots of times, but they weren't talking about hanging out watching _Supernanny_ this time.

"It's a date, then," Phil said.

"It's a date," Clint agreed. _Because we're dating. I'm dating Phil Coulson,_ he thought, and laughed nervously.

"Clint?" Phil said.

"It's all good," Clint said quickly. "It's so good that I don't quite believe it."

"Believe it," Phil said firmly. "I love you, and now that I know you feel the same, I'm determined to see this through."

"See this through," Clint said, his brow wrinkling. "What does that mean?"

"Neither one of us is the type to do things by half measures," Phil said. "I'm not going to back out of this, or give up on it, and I don't think you are, either."

"No, I won't," Clint said. "But I'm…I don't exactly have much experience with this sort of thing."

Phil gently rubbed his thumb over Clint's knuckles. "This sort of thing?"

Clint swallowed, flushing. "Phil, the longest relationship I've ever had was with Nat, and that only lasted four months," he said. "I don't want to fuck this up." 

"You won't," Phil said. "You couldn't."

"Okay," Clint said, trying to believe it. "I wish I had your confidence."

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you," Phil said. "You're incredible, Clint."

"I'm just a guy with good aim," Clint said. "You're the incredible one."

"If you're just a guy with good aim, then I'm just a guy who likes to wear suits," Phil said, rolling his eyes. "I know I'm always pushing you, but it's only because I know you'll always come through."

Clint ducked his head. Phil reached up with his free hand and ran his fingers through Clint's hair. "Last year, after you brought Natasha in, you asked me what it was that I saw in you that made me want to recruit you."

"I remember," Clint said, looking up. "You never actually answered me, just gave me some bullshit about SHIELD files."

Phil smiled wryly. "I couldn't, not without giving away how I really felt," he said. "But I can tell you now. It's simple, Clint. I saw _you_. That's all I needed to see."

It shouldn't have been a surprise, given the things that Phil had already said to him, but Clint couldn't help staring at Phil in amazement. 

"I saw you," Phil repeated softly.

Clint nodded slowly, letting it sink in. "I've never felt like this about anyone else," he said after a moment. "I really want this to work, Phil. Long-term. Like, really long-term." Admitting it was more frightening than any mission he'd ever been sent on.

"That's what I want, too," Phil said, looking at him with so much love and tenderness that Clint could barely breathe. "As far as I'm concerned, this is it. You're it, for as long as we have. I'm just annoyed it took the two of us so long to get here."

"You sure about that?" Clint asked shakily.

"Completely," Phil said, with absolutely no hesitation. "I'm aware it'll take you some time to believe it."

"Now, see, that's not fair," Clint said. "You have files on me; you know everything about me. I never even knew for sure that you were gay until you were doped up."

"I'm sorry about that," Phil said. "It made sense to keep things to myself when I was just your handler, but it's different now. I'll answer any question you have." 

"Really?" Clint said, raising an eyebrow.

"Unless it's above your security clearance," Phil said, his mouth quirking up. 

"Are you saying there are things about your personal life that are _classified_?" Clint asked, laughing.

Phil looked at him. "There are things about both our personal lives that are classified, " he said seriously. "This relationship will be in that category."

"Yeah, okay," Clint acknowledged. 

"There are some things we should probably discuss," Phil said.

"Uh-huh," Clint said uncertainly. "I know we need to tell Fury." He'd had to inform the director when he'd started up with Nat; fortunately, she'd taken responsibility for telling him when they broke up.

Phil nodded. "I can take care of that; he's coming to see me later. I'd rather not spread it around, if it's okay with you. There's already way too much gossip in this place; you know how people are."

"Nat knows, but I wouldn't want anyone else to," Clint said. "I'd rather keep it quiet."

"We'll just tell family, then," Phil said. 

Clint nodded slowly in acknowledgment. That was the only word that captured the truth of what Nat and Phil were to him. They were more family than his own had ever been. Of course Phil had known that, had understood it and named it, well before Clint himself realized it. 

"I'd like to tell the rest of my family, but only if it's okay with you," Phil added, studying his face. 

"Your parents?" Clint asked, embarrassed that he'd never really wondered who that might be. Phil rarely talked about them, but he'd mentioned a visit from a sister one time, and Clint thought he went to see them at Thanksgiving or Christmas when he could. There was a picture on his desk Clint had never asked about, and a few more in his apartment. 

"And my sisters," Phil answered, nodding. So there was more than one.

"Sure," Clint said, wondering if this meant he'd have to meet Phil's parents, who must be the two white-haired, kindly-looking people in the picture. The thought was more than a little terrifying, but he'd do it, if that's what Phil wanted. Were Phil's sisters were married; did they have kids? Was Phil "Uncle Phil" to a passel of nieces and nephews?

"I don't talk to them that often," Phil said, his thumb moving back and forth over Clint's wrist. "I probably won't hear from them for a few weeks." Clint nodded, reassured, which he knew was what Phil had intended.

"Is there anything else we need to talk about?" Clint asked. 

There was a shift in Phil's expression, the open happiness replaced by blandness as the Agent Coulson mask slid back in place, and he took his hand away from Clint's. "Yes," he said, his voice controlled and even. "If we're not able to keep our personal and professional lives separate, I can't be your handler. It wouldn't be appropriate."

Clint nodded soberly. "Got it, sir." He knew Phil was testing himself as much as he was testing Clint.

"I'm serious about this, Barton," Phil said. "Things need to stay exactly the way they've been when we're working. If you think that's going to be a problem, I'll get you another handler."

"Not necessary, boss," Clint said. "Work is work, and our relationship can't come into it; I get that. I don't want another handler; you're the best there is."

Phil nodded. "I won't hesitate to make a change if I think it's necessary."

"I understand," Clint said. "And, hey, we've been able to work together for years while apparently pining for each other like a couple of seventh graders. I think we can handle this."

Phil cracked a smile. "Good point," he said, taking Clint's hand again.

There was a knock at the door. Clint thought about kissing Phil again just to fuck with the nurse, but the look Phil gave him made it clear he would not approve, so he just called out, "Come in."

"I have your coffee, agents," the nurse said, setting two cups on the bedside table. 

"Thank you," Phil said politely.

Clint settled for nodding at the nurse and sipping his coffee.

"You should probably go," Phil said when the nurse left again. "You need to debrief with Hill."

"I'd rather debrief with you," Clint teased. "I bet you're not wearing anything underneath that hospital gown."

Phil snorted. "Later," he said, and it sounded a lot like a promise. "Get out of here, Barton. Go get your meeting over with so you can bring me some lunch."

"Yes, sir," Clint said, but he kissed Phil one more time before he got up. 

***

Hill seemed to take him at his word that Phil hadn't said anything compromising when he was drugged. She told him and Nat they'd gotten what they needed from the thumb drive, reamed him out for bringing Phil back on his own against protocol, then thanked him for doing so. 

"Is there somewhere else you need to be, Agent Barton?" she asked dryly when he glanced at his watch for the fifth time. Nat's mouth went up at the corner.

"I promised Coulson I'd bring him a cheeseburger and fries from the canteen," he said, keeping his voice casual. "You know what the food's like in Medical. Can we finish this up after lunch?"

She steepled her fingers and stared at him through narrowed eyes for three seconds. "All right," she said, and he stood to go. "Be back here in an hour, Barton," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," he called back over his shoulder, already on his way down the hall.

When he got back to Phil's room with the food, Fury was there. "Agent Barton," he said, looking at him intently. 

"Director," Clint answered. He dropped the bag with the food on the table and stood straight, his hands behind his back. 

"Agent Coulson has informed me of the change in your relationship," Fury said, his expression turning into the glare Clint was sadly familiar with.

"Yes, sir," he said, meeting Fury's eye.

"If you fuck this up, I will end you," Fury told him. 

Phil snorted. "That's a bit extreme, boss."

"Did I ask your opinion, Coulson?" Fury said, turning his glare on Phil. "Your team's had a decent amount of success, and you two fools will not do anything to change that, do you hear me?"

"We won't," Phil said firmly.

"See that you don't," Fury said. "Coulson, you're on medical leave until Monday. Barton, he'll need someone to watch him. You'll stay with him; make sure he gets plenty of rest. You too; you look exhausted. When the two of you come back to work, I expect your usual level of professionalism and hard work. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Clint said, fighting a grin. It looked like Fury might be fighting one of his own. 

Fury turned to leave, the flaps of his coat swinging around him. "Oh, and Barton?" he said at the door.

"Yes, Director?" Clint asked. 

"Thanks for bringing him back." He didn't wait for Clint's response.

Clint sat down on the bed next to Phil. "Am I on drugs now, or did Fury just order us to spend the next four days in bed?"

"Pretty much," Phil said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I trust that's an order you're willing to follow?"

"It's my favorite order ever, sir," Clint answered, grinning. "You'd better eat up; you're going to need your strength for all the resting you'll be doing."

"You too," Phil answered, taking a bite of his cheeseburger.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next to Phil's bed, on the nightstand, there was another picture, one Sitwell had taken two years earlier. Clint hadn't even noticed the camera until the flash went off; he'd been busy admiring the new bow he'd just received. He'd never given the picture a second thought. But there he was, looking down at his bow and smiling, in a frame that matched the ones on the bookshelf.

Phil sent him a text late that afternoon, when he was still stuck in Hill's office with Nat: _Released to go home. Call when you're on your way._ He kept his face expressionless, but Nat leaned over just enough to read the text, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

"Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Agent Barton?" Hill asked acerbically.

"Not really," Clint answered, smirking.

"Once again, I'm left with the impression that I'm keeping you from something," she said, her eyes narrowing. 

"Wouldn't mind getting some rest, ma'am," Clint said politely. "When we're done, of course."

"Director Fury mentioned something about some time off," Natasha said smoothly. "For the team."

"Yes, I'm aware," Hill said. "Let's get back to your description of the building where they held Agent Coulson."

Hill kept them for another hour and a half. Her promotion was still relatively recent, and she seemed determined to prove her worth by getting every single detail of the mission from the two of them. Fortunately, she didn't extend that to what Phil had said when he was drugged. Clint suspected it was a combination of her respect for Phil and a direct order from Fury. Whatever the reason, he was grateful.

He jogged through the hallways and down the stairs to the canteen to pick up the pie he'd convinced Carla to make. She'd always had a soft spot for Phil, and he wasn't above taking advantage if it meant he could wrangle one of her pies out of it. He grinned when he saw she'd made Phil's favorite, pumpkin. 

When he got to his quarters, he stopped, at a loss. Clint knew how to pack for a mission; that was easy, but this…. How was he supposed to pack for four days with Phil? 

The only clean clothes he owned were his SHIELD uniforms and workout gear. The last thing he wanted to do right then was laundry, but it wasn't like he had a lot of civilian clothing. He only had a couple of pairs of clean boxers left. He looked through his room a few times, but there wasn't anything else, and nothing in his laundry bag came close to passing the smell test. Not that he'd want Phil to see him in anything that wasn't clean and relatively unwrinkled--this was _Phil_ , after all. He probably ironed his sweatshirts. 

Jesus, maybe he'd get to see Phil in a sweatshirt, soft grey with "Yale" on it, with the sleeves pushed up. The image stopped him in his tracks for a moment.

After several minutes of hemming and hawing, he shrugged and threw the uniforms, some socks, and his boxers into a duffel bag. Then he tossed in condoms and lube without letting himself think about it, ignoring the way his heart was thumping out of his chest. If things went well, he wouldn't be wearing a lot of clothing anyway. 

He went into the tiny bathroom to get his shaving kit, which was cheap and old and falling apart. Maybe he should just stop on the way and pick up a new one. He looked into the shower at his shampoo and soap and wondered if he could just borrow Phil's. Maybe they could take a shower together. That thought distracted him for another minute. When his phone rang, he knocked his head against the door of the shower.

"Barton," he said when he'd managed to fish it out of his pocket. Whoever the hell was calling him right now better have a damned good reason.

"Is everything all right?" Phil asked after a tiny pause.

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," he said quickly, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm just trying to pack a bag, you know, to bring over to your place. That's okay, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Phil said, sounding relieved. "Bring whatever you want."

"I hope you're okay seeing me in my uniform all weekend," Clint said, flushing. "I left for the op without doing laundry."

"I have a washer and dryer," Phil said; there was a hint of something other than utter calm in his voice.

Clint swallowed, because the implicit invitation struck him as almost more intimate than sharing a shower. "You mean you don't just send everything to the cleaners?" he teased, mostly to give himself a moment.

"Only the suits," Phil said dryly. "Clint, just grab everything and get over here, okay?"

"Okay," Clint said, picking up the shampoo and soap. "I'll see you soon."

"Good," Phil said. "The sooner the better."

"Copy that, sir," Clint said, and hung up. He went around his room again, picking up odds and ends and throwing them into one bag or another. When he'd finished, he slung the bags over his shoulders, picked up the pie, and headed for the elevator.

Not wanting to wrestle the bags and the pie onto the subway, he hailed a taxi once he got outside. He gave the driver Phil's address and sat in the back seat, getting more and more nervous as they wove through traffic. He checked his wallet in a panic, worried he didn't have enough cash to pay for the trip, but there was plenty. 

It wasn't like he ever bought much. In fact, practically everything he owned was currently sitting in the trunk of the cab. Shit, Phil would probably think he was trying to move in.

That idea freaked him out way less than he would have guessed. He chewed that over until the taxi pulled up at Phil's apartment building.

He wouldn't let the driver touch his bags, but once he had them settled over his back again, he gave the guy a decent tip. Phil lived in an upscale building, one with a doorman. He'd been there often enough that the guy recognized him and waved him over to the elevator with a cheery, "Welcome back, Mr. Barton." Clint always wondered what he thought Phil did for a living, if he believed Phil's government accountant cover story. 

There wasn't anyone else in the elevator on the ride up to the fifteenth floor, which was a relief. He wasn't a fan of strangers (who might be Phil's neighbors) glaring at him because they thought he looked out of place, and that happened even when he wasn't loaded down with dirty laundry, a duffle, and a pie. At least when he was at SHIELD he could be the one glaring on occasion; if he tried that with the citizens who lived in this apartment, they'd think he was an ax-murderer or something. It wasn't like they'd be that far off; they probably wouldn't be much happier to know he was a government-sanctioned assassin. 

Jesus, this was not the time to be thinking about this kind of shit. Not when the elevator doors were just about to open. Not when he was about to knock on Phil's door. Not his friend, Coulson. Phil, who loved him.

He got out of the elevator, walked down the hall, balanced the pie on one hand, and knocked.

It took about thirty seconds before Phil opened the door, and when he did, he was drying his hands on the apron he was wearing over khakis and a charcoal grey sweater. The sleeves were pushed up above his elbow, just like Clint had imagined. "Come on in," he said, taking the pie from Clint's hand and grabbing the laundry bag from his shoulder. "I'll take these; you can take your bag into the bedroom." His cheeks flushed a little at the last part.

"Okay," Clint said, trying to act like it was no big deal to be dropping off his luggage in Phil's _bedroom_. Whenever he'd been over at the apartment before this, the door to the bedroom had been closed. Now it was open.

Clint hung his jacket in the closet and took his boots off, leaving them next to Phil's shoes. He walked through the living room, noting the familiar couch, the framed Captain America movie poster, the books on the shelves and the coffee table, the briefcase in its spot next to Phil's desk. He moved past the kitchen, where Phil was spreading something in a casserole dish, a glass of wine on the counter beside him, and walked into the bedroom like he belonged there. It felt a bit like an undercover gig, putting on confidence to suss out an unfamiliar environment. 

The décor in Phil's bedroom was a soothing mixture of blues, greens, and honey-colored wood. There was a large black and white print of a beach over the bed, which was covered in a simple navy bedspread. There was another bookshelf, this one containing comic books in plastic protectors, along with other books. On the top shelf was a large, clear bowl filled with sea-glass, and there were framed pictures of Phil's family in front of the books. It looked like he had two sisters. 

Next to Phil's bed, on the nightstand, there was another picture, one Sitwell had taken two years earlier. Clint hadn't even noticed the camera until the flash went off; he'd been busy admiring the new bow he'd just received. He'd never given the picture a second thought. But there he was, looking down at his bow and smiling, in a frame that matched the ones on the bookshelf.

Clint picked it up and looked at it for a few seconds, tracing the outside of the frame with his finger. Then he dropped his bag next to the bed and went back into the kitchen.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost," Phil said, looking up briefly from ladling a delicious-smelling red sauce over some flat noodles.

"Is that lasagna?" Clint asked, coming up behind Phil and putting his arms around his waist. 

"It is," Phil said, dropping the ladle into the saucepot and leaning back, putting his hands on top of Clint's. It felt amazing, just having that much contact, knowing Phil welcomed it. "There's a salad in the fridge."

"You're making me dinner," Clint said. He kissed the back of Phil's neck, wondering if this was what people meant when they said they felt giddy. "Thank you."

Phil shrugged, but he was smiling. "You brought me pie," he said, like that was at all the same.

"How long have you had a framed picture of me next to your bed?" Clint asked, resting his chin on Phil's shoulder. He smelled like Phil again, not like Medical.

"I've had the picture ever since Jasper took it," Phil said, the tips of his ears turning pink again. "I only put it in the frame today. I hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Clint answered, nuzzling behind Phil's ear. "I just wish I had one of you."

"I can probably find one for you," Phil said, looking down. His cheeks were as pink as his ears; it was fucking adorable. "Just give me a few more minutes, and I can stick this in the oven."

"Okay," Clint said agreeably. He stepped back and to the side, keeping one arm around Phil's waist. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Grate some cheese for me?" Phil asked, spreading a layer of spinach and mushrooms over the sauce.

They worked together until the casserole dish was full up. Phil put it in the oven and set the timer, and the two of them washed their hands in the sink, making way for each other without the need for words. 

When they'd finished, they slipped easily into each other's arms, like they'd been doing this for years. Clint supposed they had, in a way.

"Hi," Phil said, his hands on Clint's waist.

"Hi," Clint answered, untying Phil's apron. He moved back just enough to lift it over Phil's head and toss it towards the counter. Phil raised one hand to Clint's cheek, and just as he had in Saigon, Clint closed his eyes and breathed in. He was still breathing out when Phil's mouth met his.

The kiss started out soft, tender, almost reverent, with Phil's fingers lightly caressing the line of his jaw, and Clint's hands resting on Phil's hips. Clint could feel Phil's chest move against his with every breath; _fuck_ it felt good. Then Phil made that soft sound again, the one he'd made in Medical, and opened his lips under Clint's.

_Someday_ , Clint thought as Phil's tongue traced over his palate, _someday I'll know all of the ways he kisses_. Then Phil pulled him closer, close enough that he could feel Phil's dick pressed against his. Phil moaned into his mouth, and Clint stopped thinking. 

He dove into the kiss, into Phil, surging forward until he had Phil backed up against the counter. He got his hands under Phil's sweater and pushed it up, working quickly to get it over Phil's head. Phil pulled at Clint's t-shirt until that too had been tossed aside. 

They stared at each other for a second, both of them breathing heavily. "Clint," Phil said, his fingers tracing over Clint's collarbone, "Jesus, you're gorgeous."

"You too," Clint said hoarsely, staring at Phil's chest. He could touch it now, so he did, first with his fingertips, then resting his palm against Phil's sternum. Then he was lost again. He bent his head to taste Phil's skin, tonguing a nipple. He rubbed his cheek against Phil's skin, reveling in the way the wiry hairs caught on his stubble, before he went back to his nipple, his pecs, his collarbone, the crook of his neck. 

Phil was muttering under his breath, things like, "fuck," and "so good," "Clint," interspersed with gasps and moans. One hand was at the nape of Clint's neck, the other moving restlessly across his back and shoulders. Clint sank to his knees, nuzzling at the bulge in Phil's khakis, and Phil moaned again. He reached for the button, but Phil said, "No, stop."

Clint stared up at him, confused. "You want me to stop _now_?" he asked, a little annoyed. His dick was pressing tightly against his fly, and Phil, Jesus. Phil's dick was _right there_ , and it was just as hard as Clint's. His mouth watering, he nuzzled it again.

"Get up here," Phil said gruffly, hauling him up by his shoulders. "Listen, some other time, if you want to blow me in the kitchen, believe me, I will not object." He pushed Clint towards the living room. "But tonight I want you, _all_ of you, spread out on my bed. Okay?"

"Yeah, yes, okay," Clint said quickly. "Anything, Phil." He thought he'd been turned on before, but now he could barely breathe. Phil kissed him once, hard, grabbed his hand, and pulled him into the bedroom.

Once they got through the door, Phil stripped the rest of his clothes off with his typical efficiency. Then he stripped Clint, who'd been standing there staring at Phil, with the same efficiency, and pushed him until the backs of his legs hit the bed. Clint fell easily back onto the bed, but he grabbed hold of Phil and brought him along for the ride. Phil being Phil, he landed perfectly, holding himself up on his elbows, then lowering his body onto Clint's. 

Phil put his hands on either side of Clint's face and kissed him, rolling his hips against Clint's. He moaned into Clint's mouth, then shifted to bite gently at his neck. Clint held on to Phil, feeling the play of Phil's muscles under his hands, the warmth of his skin, the exquisite pressure of Phil's cock against his. He deliberately spread his legs wide, bending his knees and planting his feet firmly on the bed. 

"Fuck, Clint," Phil groaned, kissing him again before rolling off to open the drawer of the bedside table. 

They were both too impatient to wait any longer. Phil prepped him quickly, watching Clint's face closely, murmuring expletives and endearments in equal measure. He was completely open and unguarded; it reminded Clint of how he'd been in Saigon, but this time it was Phil's choice, Phil trusting him. Phil loving him, and _God_ , he loved Phil so much. 

He'd never been fucked face to face. Even when Nat had pegged him, it had been from behind. He hoped that Phil knew what it meant, that he could read on Clint's face everything he couldn't say out loud. 

Then Phil was taking his fingers out, putting on the condom, lifting Clint's leg, and sliding into him, and Clint was gasping for breath, arching his back, and looking up into Phil's eyes. He kept his eyes open, watching Phil's face, listening to the sounds he made, to the sounds their bodies made, holding on until Phil reached for his cock and groaned, "Come for me, Clint; let me see you come," and that was it, Clint was screwing his eyes shut, curling up, and letting go, his entire body shaking with pleasure. His cock was still twitching when Phil made a keening noise and thrust into him desperately as he came.

Phil collapsed on top of him after: heavy, sweaty, warm, and very welcome. Clint held on, one leg still hooked over Phil's shoulder, the other around his waist, until Phil pulled out and disposed of the condom. Clint stretched out his legs but kept his hands on Phil, pulling at him until he rested on top of Clint again. He couldn't speak, couldn't let go; all he could do was hang on tightly as Phil pressed his lips against Clint's neck and tangled his fingers in Clint's hair. 

Phil lifted his head enough to look at him. Clint couldn't hide it; he knew Phil could see how he was cracked open, raw, more vulnerable than he'd felt since he was a five year old crouching in the closet while his father beat his mother. The depth of what he felt for Phil was right there on his face, right down to the embarrassing wetness in his eyes. "What's wrong?" Phil asked softly, his hand on Clint's face, but Clint just shook his head and kissed Phil's palm, closing his eyes.

"Clint," Phil said, his voice even softer. "Look at me."

Clint opened his eyes again, looking into Phil's, seeing that Phil was just as open, just as vulnerable, if not quite as raw. "I love you," Phil said. "I won't leave you, Clint." Clint took a shuddering breath, but he kept his eyes open. "Not by choice. Not ever, not if I can help it."

Clint nodded. The qualifier at the end made it better somehow, Phil's blunt acceptance of the dangers they faced every day. He should have known Phil would understand, would know what to say, what Clint needed, even if Clint didn't know himself. "I won't ever leave you either," he said hoarsely. "Not by choice. I love you."

Phil kissed his temple and settled back onto his chest. Clint loosened his hold, but he kept his arms around Phil. He'd never felt more content in his life. His breathing slowed, and he was nearly asleep when Phil said, "We're a mess, and I'm getting cold. Let's get in the shower."

"'kay," Clint mumbled, letting Phil pull him up into a sitting position. 

"Fury was right," Phil said. He sounded worried, which got Clint's attention. "Have you slept at all?"

"Five hours last night," Clint said, making an effort to wake up again. "A couple naps on the plane. I'm fine, Phil. A shower sounds good. A shower with _you_ sounds fucking fantastic."

Phil huffed a quiet laugh and kissed his shoulder. They showered, and it was even better than Clint had imagined, Phil's strong hands massaging shampoo onto his scalp, Clint washing Phil's back, both of them stopping and kissing whenever they felt like it. Neither of them were up for another round yet, but it didn't matter. They had time.

After the shower, they stuffed themselves with salad, lasagna, and pie, then decamped to the couch. Phil turned on the television, one of his reality shows, and Clint rested his head in Phil's lap while Phil gently ran his fingers through Clint's hair. Clint was asleep before the first commercial break.

He woke when Phil turned off the TV. "Hey," he said, looking into Phil's eyes, so blue and so warm.

"Hey," Phil said softly. "Sorry to wake you, but I thought we might be more comfortable in the bed."

"I dunno, I'm pretty comfortable here," Clint said, sitting up and kissing Phil. They made out on the couch for a while, until they were both hard and breathless, then Phil took him into the bedroom again. Clint continued to catalog Phil's kisses, the places Clint touched that made him moan, along with the scent of him, the taste of him, the way his hands never tightened painfully in Clint's hair, not even when he was coming. Then it was Phil's turn to explore, and Clint could tell that it didn't make a bit of difference to Phil that Clint was so quiet. Phil could read him, read his body, his nearly silent gasps, could bring him to the edge again and again before he finally fell over. 

He realized when he woke the next morning that he felt better rested than he could remember. That he felt safe here, in Phil's bed, in Phil's arms, safe enough to sleep deeply, with no part of him on alert. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept like that, not even in his quarters. Looking at Phil, who was still asleep, he thought maybe it was the same for him; Clint had never seen him look so relaxed. He didn't stir when Clint got out of bed, didn't even move when Clint pressed a kiss to his forehead before he went out to get some eggs and milk and flour. 

When he got back, Phil was in the kitchen, drinking the coffee Clint had started, wearing his own pajama pants and one of Clint's t-shirts. Clint smiled at him, knowing this was what he wanted to see every morning for the rest of his life.


	6. Epilogue

To everyone's surprise--or everyone's but Tony's--the entire Coulson clan arrived in Manhattan two days before Thanksgiving. Clint knew Phil was secretly relieved. Barbara, well into her eighties, had recently fallen and broken her arm. She was still sharp as a tack mentally, but she looked more physically frail every time they saw her. Clint had to get a hold of himself when he realized she was only eight years younger than Jim Morita had been when he died. It had been rough enough when Evan had passed away three years earlier; he wasn't sure how any of them would manage losing Barbara.

In any case, the last thing she needed to be doing was cooking a huge meal. Instead, she supervised, showing everyone where her son got his organizational and strategic skills. Bruce, Phil, and his sisters did the bulk of the cooking, but everyone pitched in, even Tony. Phil, his sisters, and Clint shared some significant looks, but no one said anything. Everyone from Darcy to JARVIS seemed delighted by Barbara and determined to make the holiday a good one for her and the rest of the Coulsons.

Stephanie's boyfriend, Todd, turned out to be mostly okay, especially when he and Stephanie made batch after batch of these pumpkin chocolate chip cookies that no one could resist. They were like pumpkin and chocolate crack. Scott came around when Todd asked him about how he could help out at the camp for disabled kids Scott ran each summer.

There were no emergencies that required the Avengers that whole week. Clint suspected Fury had something to do with that, but he wasn't going to question it. There were a few moments of tension, mostly Tony's fault, but for the most part everyone was relaxed and happy. 

Darcy declared Barbara her adopted grandmother. Phil hadn't been sure how his buttoned-down New England mother would respond to Darcy's enthusiasm, but Barbara had given Darcy a one-armed hug and declared that she was honored. Tony bent over backwards to satisfy her every whim, which seemed to throw Barbara at first, but by the end of the first night, she was ordering him around like she was his grandmother, too.

Steve and Bucky spent hours talking with her. She was born only a dozen years after they were, so there was a lot for them to talk about. Clint caught Phil gazing at the three of them fondly, if a little sadly, more than once. "He would have loved this," Clint said softly one afternoon when Phil was more caught up in watching his mother than the football game on Tony's huge television. 

"Yeah, he would have," Phil replied, putting his arm around Clint. "Do you think we should be looking for an assisted living home for Mom? I'm worried about her in that house by herself; imagine if it had been her hip instead of her arm. Who knows how long it would have been till someone found her."

"She's not gonna want to move into a nursing home; she's just as stubborn as the rest of your family. Why not ask her to move in here?" Clint said, settling into Phil's side and taking Phil's free hand in his. "You know Steve and Bucky would love it. Darcy, too. Even Tony's smitten." 

Phil hummed. "I'll talk to Jen and Liz about it first, see what they think."

"You want me to talk to Tony?" Clint asked. 

"That would be great," Phil answered. 

***

They all went to Connecticut for Christmas that year, the last one in the old house. Tony booked half the rooms at the Stonington Inn, an amazing feat considering the lateness of the season. Clint figured he paid for the guests who'd already reserved rooms to stay somewhere else. The Inn was nice, but Clint and Phil slept on the sofabed in the basement like they usually did. 

There were more kinds of candy, pies, and cookies than you could count, including plenty of the pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, which was a good thing when you had guests with appetites like Steve and Thor. They let Barbara do some of the cooking this time, since her arm had healed, but they all pitched in to help. Bucky insisted on peeling the potatoes, although he was still a little awkward with his new hand.

Steve got down on one knee in front of Bucky on New Year's Eve, saying he'd wanted to earlier, but he had to wait until Bucky could wear his ring. "I don't need a ring, punk," Bucky said, pulling Steve up and kissing him soundly. 

"Is that a yes?" Steve asked when they came up for air.

"Of course it's a yes," Bucky said, and kissed him again.

Barbara Coulson moved into her newly designed suite in March, just before the wedding. Clint stood up for Steve, Natasha for Bucky. Everyone got a little misty, even Natasha. Thor took them to Asgard for their honeymoon; it was the only place the paparazzi couldn't follow.

That year, Clint and Phil spent their wedding anniversary battling a hive of sentient bees. But on their other anniversary, Phil made lasagna, Clint picked up a pumpkin pie, and they had pancakes in the morning. 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I view the universe of [Long Range Reconnaissance](http://archiveofourown.org/series/20869) as connected to the two universes in [The Gift of Idunn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/455917). I wasn't going to write anything new in LRR, but I couldn't stop thinking about what happened on the Saigon mission in this universe, and since I'd already written a first-time story for Steve and Bucky, it seemed only fair to do one for Phil and Clint.
> 
> I keep saying I'm done with this series, but then something pulls me back in. Never say never, I guess. There's another potential story, related to the series but not exactly part of it, that I've been playing around with. We'll see if I can get it done and posted at some point.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me either at [my fannish tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shellumbo) or [my pro writing tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sbyzmcpherson). Or you can follow either on Twitter: @shellumbo or @sbyzmcpherson. Or both!


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